


Ruins

by TheAnonymousJoker



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:23:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAnonymousJoker/pseuds/TheAnonymousJoker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[currently suspended]</p><p>After Duro is killed saving a mother and her child in a grocery store shooting, Agron must learn how to live without his brother. Nasir, a musician trying to make it big in a small city, dreams of nothing but the life of a rocker: the sex, the booze, and the fame. Both men have the same therapist, Oenomaus, who takes great joy in playing the sly matchmaker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Doctore's Office

**Author's Note:**

> And here... we... go!

Nasir’s therapist smiled politely as the Syrian walked in, his long hair loose and wild and his tattooed arms on display in a tight wifebeater. “Doctore,” Nasir said with a smirk. Oenomaus’ eyes narrowed for a millisecond before he forced his kind, caring mask back. _Call me Oenomaus_ , the therapist had said during their first session. Nasir, as usual, didn’t care much for what the man wanted. In fact, he rather enjoyed the agitation he managed to elicit from the older man.

                “How was your week?” Oenomaus asked, leaning back in his luxurious chair, his yellow legal notepad in his lap. He held a pen that probably cost more than Nasir’s rent in his right hand. That wasn’t to say Nasir’s rent was a lot, that is. His apartment was shoddy and nestled into the deepest depths of the bad part of town. He liked it, though. Or, at least, he didn’t hate it. He spent more time at his friend’s bar than anywhere else.

                And he wouldn’t say it aloud, but Nasir was beyond thankful for Spartacus’ friendship. The man was popular with many people in town, which made Nasir want to hate him, but Spartacus had a smart head on his shoulders. He was logical and careful and inspired. Nasir didn’t think it was possible to have both reason and passion. He surely didn’t, after all. Reason was something that had left his mind with the calculus from high school.

                Nasir dropped into his usual seat on the right of the loveseat under Oenomaus’ window. “Great, actually,” he said, crossing his legs at the knees. “New ink, new fucks, new music. I swear, life hadn’t been this great in weeks!”  He flung his arms around the backrest of the loveseat and ground his back into the suede fabric.

                Oenomaus frowned slightly. “And how’s your journal?”

                Nasir’s lips quirked into a lopsided grin. “Oh, that one you gave me? I’m pretty sure Chadara’s enjoying it. Makes a good chew toy, I found.”

                The therapist bit his tongue in frustration. Nasir had been his patient for nearly a year now and he _still_ hadn’t gotten past how good last night’s fuck was. Oenomaus had been close to considering Nasir a failure for months, but the doctor had been taught to never give up on a patient. Especially one who needed his help as much as Nasir did.

                “Speaking of,” Nasir said, carefully inspecting the patch of healing skin on the inside of his wrist. “Do you happen to know how to get dog piss out of an amp? Bitch decided she liked my music so much she couldn’t hold it.”

                Oenomaus took a deep breath and shook his head, jotting down on his notepad that there was still no progress in his patient. He offered careless grunts at the appropriate times as Nasir rambled on about some set of twins he’d managed to seduce. A boy and a girl, the Syrian said proudly. Nasir continued by complaining to his therapist that his favorite tattoo artist had finally packed up and left for San Francisco, and that his most recent ink was done by ‘some amateur fuck’ on the south side of town.

                Their hour passed painfully slowly for Oenomaus, and when the clock on the wall finally ticked to two o’clock, the doctor stood up, brushing out the wrinkles in his trousers and placing his doodle-filled notepad on his desk.

                “It’s been good to talk to you,” he said formally, reaching out to shake Nasir’s hand. The Syrian pulled the large man into a hug, slapping Oenomaus on the back before pulling away, a large smile on his face.

                _Ah_ , Oenomaus mused cynically, _he’s high_. And Nasir was, like usual. The faint smell of marijuana wafted from his clothes and on his breath, his pupils blown wide and his speech just slightly affected.

                “Good to see you too, Doc,” Nasir said loudly as the therapist led him out of his office, a large hand spanning his back in support. Oenomaus saw that the Syrian had gotten safely out his door before turning to his waiting room, where a single large man sat in the corner, his head buried in some fishing magazine he obviously had no interest in.

                “Agron?” Oenomaus called softly, already worried about the man. Agron glanced up and put the magazine aside, standing and reaching out to shake his therapist’s hand. “Come on back.”

                Agron dropped into the loveseat, pressing himself into the left armrest. He already felt anxious in Oenomaus’ office. The beige walls, beige curtains, beige furniture, beige carpet, beige lights. He’d never particularly liked Oenomaus’ office, but the man was the only therapist he could tolerate. The only one who didn’t try to shove their way into his thoughts or stare at him condescendingly when he refused to answer their questions.

                “How’s life?” Oenomaus asked, clicking his pen into the ready position and tossing Nasir’s sheet into the garbage can. He expected to use more of his talents when talking to Agron. The man actually wanted help, even if he was sometimes reluctant to accept it.

                “Like death,” Agron responded dully, gripping his fingers into the armrest of the loveseat. He felt the suede almost give way under his strength, so he resorted to clawing his nails into his palms. Oenomaus shot him a ‘please continue’ look as he scribbled words onto the yellow notepad. “Anniversary is coming up in about two weeks.”

                Oenomaus glanced at his calendar. “Six months?”

                “Twenty-five weeks. Twenty-five was his favorite number.”

                “Ah,” the doctor said, quickly jotting down more notes. “Do you have plans?”

                Agron glared at his therapist. “Besides drink myself into a hole? No. I’ll visit the cemetery and lock myself in my room with a couple bottles of Jack.” Truthfully, these plans were not very much different from the plans he held every weekend. Agron knew his recent alcohol consumption was far from healthy, but he didn’t care. He would put himself through the suffering he put Duro through. He had to do at least that.

                “For Duro?” Oenomaus pressed. Agron shot the man an incredulous glare. “Well,” the therapist said, “I can’t say I approve of your decisions, but I can’t legally intervene since you aren’t proposing breaking the law. However, I think it would be highly beneficial to you to find a new way of mourning.”

                Agron sneered. “A new way of mourning? I’m mourning just the way Duro would have wanted me to!”

                “Do you have friends to go to? Ones that can just make good company, even if you don’t talk about Duro. It’ll help, Agron, you just need to take the initiative. Because, even though I didn’t know him, I doubt like hell Duro would want you to beat yourself into a pulp because of a freak accident.”

                Agron sighed. “It wasn’t an accident. People don’t rain bullets in a grocery store on _accident._ If anything, it’s my fault,” he hissed.

                Oenomaus accepted the answer with a dejected scribble of his pen. “But your friends?”

                “I’ve got a few.” It wasn’t a lie. He had several friends, none of whom he was particularly close to. Duro had always been his best friend. He had his old coworker, Mira, and her boyfriend, whom Agron only knew for the bar he owned, Spartacus. He hadn’t spoken to them in a long while, but Gannicus and Donar were always there for him in their shared dorm at the local university. Then there was Crixus, but Agron would rather drink bleach than let Crixus see how broken he was. “They don’t like talking about him.”

                The therapist nodded as he continued to write on his notepad. “Maybe you should still see them?”

                “It would be stupid to.”

                Oenomaus disagreed, but the German wouldn’t hear it. What was left of their session passed in meaningless discussion of meaningless things. Agron thought there were too many gangs forming. Oenomaus noted that the local politicians were getting smarmier and smarmier. The weather was getting worse as winter closed in. Agron hated driving in snow. Oenomaus’ business hours were changing after the start of December. The local libraries were shutting down after the levy failed to pass.

                Oenomaus’ clock ticked past the hour. “Well, it’s been good to talk to you. I’ll see you next week,” he said, shaking Agron’s large hand.

                “Of course.”

                Oenomaus paused for a moment before grinning slyly. “In fact, come an hour early.”


	2. Guns

No matter how tough he came off as, Nasir was terrified of the prospect of wandering through the dark streets of the worst part of town, West Side, alone. It was easier in the summer, when the sun stayed above its horizon until late in the evening, but during this time of year, with the promising chill of a harsh winter setting in, the streets darkened before Nasir even got off work.

                The Syrian grabbed his coat from the hook next to the employee back door and tossed it over his shoulder. His boss, a beautiful woman with coffee colored skin, glanced up from behind her post at the cash register. She wore her dark hair short with a faded red bandana keeping it from her face. Nasir had always liked her. She was motherly in everything she did, even if she only had a few years at best on Nasir.

                “Headed home?” she asked, carefully refilling the cash register’s tape. Nasir nodded and reached for his timecard. “Be safe,” she warned dotingly.

                “Bye, Naevia,” Nasir said, grinning and stepping out the door. As soon as it closed behind him, he was fishing in his pocket for a joint he’d rolled before he left that morning. Naevia would have a fit if she saw him smoking. She undoubtedly knew he did—even Nasir wasn’t so stupid as to not think he didn’t smell of drugs—but as long as she didn’t see it, she didn’t say a word. Nasir was thankful for that.

                He took a long drag, savoring the warm air in his lungs for several moments before exhaling a small cloud of smoke. He walked down the side of the road, hugging close to the streetlamp-lit areas. They were far and few between, but their faint yellow glow comforted Nasir’s nerves.

                It wasn’t that he was scared of the people in West Side. He was one of them, after all, but there was something disconcerting about the dark, damp streets. Something that sang to Nasir, telling him he didn’t belong. But he’d grown up in those streets. He’d grown up with the boys and girls who were now leading the small town’s two feuding gangs. He’d played with weapons from a young age. He’d accepted that his dreams were destined to rot in the sewers like the road kill the town officials never cared to clear away.

                He dreamt of being a rock star. Of touring the world with his music and meeting new people. Fucking them, naturally. He dreamt of getting out of the small town he’d lived in his entire life. He dreamt of the designer drugs and booze that awaited him on the west coast. He dreamt of the master tattoo artists that could give him better ink than his most recent artist.

                At the thought, he turned his wrist over and scratched absentmindedly at the healing skin. His most recent tattoo, a small black and white kite on the inside of his left wrist. Its body sat over his vein, and its tail wrapped around his wrist, small bows hanging off at regular intervals. Under the kite were two words in lowercase script, _fly away_. Nasir had worried it was too much of a girl’s tattoo, but he really didn’t care. It meant so much to him that he could barely imagine it any other way.

                Nasir’s head flew up, his eyes blown wide and the stump of his joint floating to the ground. He looked around him into the darkness, slowly reaching for the back of his pants. He felt the small pistol in his waistband under his fingertips.

                Another bang came from the same alley he thought he’d heard the first from. He pulled the gun out and gripped it like a lifeline. He would be foolish to think it were anything but a diversion from the end.

                “Who’s there?” he asked, begging his voice not to show his anxiety. He checked the safety on the gun. Off. “Hey! Who the fuck is there?”

                Another bang came and Nasir tensed, aiming his gun into the darkness.

                A raccoon scampered out, a trashcan lid is his mouth.

 

Agron was surprised not to be the only one at the gym. It was almost three in the morning, and usually when he came, he was the only person, save the manager, there. Tonight, there were two other men, one of whom on the treadmill furthest from Agron’s own treadmill. The other, a grossly muscular man with fading hair, sat at a benchpress, the veins in his arms puffing out.

                Agron was panting heavily, the blood pumping in his ears louder than his music. Metallica, naturally. He grit his jaw and increased the speed and incline of his treadmill.

                Duro used to work out like this. He’d push himself until collapse. He’d only sip at his water when his tongue seemed so dry it’d fall off if he didn’t. Agron used to nurse him back to health after he came home, his muscles hot to the touch and his lips parched. His eyes dull and iced over in lethargy. Agron would sit him on their sofa and slowly cool down his muscles. He’d force soup down his brother’s throat and massage whatever muscles Duro claimed to be most sore.

                He almost tripped over his own feet. _Stop it, Agron_ , he thought. He forced his mind from his dead brother with a long, hard sprint. He slowed only when Muscles stood from the bench and flexed his muscles approvingly. He waved Agron and Runner a farewell and disappeared into the locker room. Runner never shifted his gaze from the television that hung on the opposite wall, playing deadbeat celebrity news.

                Agron slowed the treadmill and jumped off, his breathing rough and ragged. He walked to the bench and used a towel to wipe it down. When he was satisfied it was clean enough, he lay down and strained against the heavy bar. Muscle’s weights were still on the ends and Agron knew he couldn’t possibly lift them. He righted himself and pulled off nearly a hundred pounds of iron from the bar before lying down and trying again. This time, the bar rose with his arms. He felt an almost pleasant burn in his biceps in the first lift. He did it again and again until his entire upper body was screaming in pain.

                He was set on working himself into the ground as hard as Duro had. But he didn’t have anyone to nurse him back to health. And that was okay with him. The more of Duro’s pain he could experience, the better.

                Runner left not but fifteen minutes after Muscles had. Finding himself alone in the main body of the gym, Agron walked up to one of the massive mirrors. He looked at his legs, his abs, his hair, his aching arms, anywhere but his eyes. He knew that if he stared himself down, he’d see the self-loathing pain, fear, and agony in them. He didn’t want that. If he ignored it, maybe it would go away.

                His arms ached but were already visibly larger. Agron knew it was inflammation from the extreme workout, but he loved it anyway. He felt his tender muscles.

                _I’ll have guns soon_ , he thought, a small grin ghosting over his lips. Then he stopped and looked at himself in the mirror, focusing on a spot right between his eyebrows. _Guns_ , he mused bitterly. Maybe he’ll kill someone with them. Maybe he’ll insist on killing the son’s nephew’s friend of some mob boss he didn’t like.

                Agron collected his things, anger lacing his motions. He forwent the shower and stepped into the cold night before sprinting home. The physical pain helped to mask the emotional pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say this felt ungodly long to write and then it ended up being almost painfully short. This city deserves a better class of criminal.

**Author's Note:**

> This is based ever so loosely on a song I used to like and somehow this came of it. If you think you know what it is, good fucking job.


End file.
